


Big Man with a Gun

by shinelikethunder (tenlittlebullets)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cap's unhealthy martyrdom complex, Electrocution, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Missing Scene, Non-regulation uses of stun batons, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 00:40:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1585373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenlittlebullets/pseuds/shinelikethunder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, so Steve's kind of distracted by the revelation that his dead best friend is now a brainwashed Russian assassin. Rumlow sure does know how to pick his moments. But that doesn't mean Steve Rogers is suddenly going to start being impressed by bullies.</p>
<p>[<a href="http://capkink.dreamwidth.org/1349.html?thread=79429#cmt79429">capkink fill</a> for a prompt requesting Rumlow/Steve noncon at some point during the Winter Soldier movie. Set, naturally, at the cruelest possible moment in order to kick Steve while he's down. Formerly titled "And I'll Show You Somehow."]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big Man with a Gun

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Nine Inch Nails' "Big Man with a Gun". So was the old title, actually:
> 
>   _I can reduce you if I want, I can devour_  
>  _I'm hard as fucking steel, and I've got the power_  
>  _I'm every inch a man, and I'll show you somehow_  
>  _Me and my fucking gun, nothing can stop me now_

Bucky.

The Winter Soldier is _Bucky_.

Bucky's alive, and he's the Winter Soldier.

Time slows to a crawl, and yet everything happens so fast. Steve's eyes don't leave his old friend as he lunges forward into one last murderous assault, then there's a muffled explosion and Bucky's gone. Everything is muffled, as a matter of fact. He doesn't see Natasha drop the gun. He barely hears the sirens. He stays rooted to the spot, staring at the place where Bucky had stood and looked him dead in the eye without knowing him.

It's only when the swarm of strike team members blocks his view that he snaps back to reality. It's over. They're captured. There's shouting, and a lot of guns pointed right at his head. The adrenaline is still racing through his blood, but all the fight's gone out of him, leaving his brain to spin dizzy circles around the same thought over and over-- _the Winter Soldier is Bucky is the Winter Soldier is_ \--and he doesn't parse the words "Get on your knees!" until Rumlow's already kicked his legs out from under him. He goes down hard on both kneecaps, and can't bring himself to care.

Time is starting to go at its normal pace again, but it's still like he's seeing everything from a distance. Numbly he watches Natasha and Sam being manhandled into one of the police vans, and even though Rumlow's hovering right behind him and speaking inches from Steve's ear—“Not here,” he keeps saying, voice dark with menace—he might as well be watching the whole scene from the news chopper overhead.

“Should I put him in with the others?” says the guy who's shoving Steve's arms into a massive pair of handcuffs.

“In a minute,” Rumlow answers, so close that Steve can feel the hairs at the back of his neck prickling when Rumlow breathes out, then hear him inhale sharply through his nose. Something's off. Vague alarms are going off in the hypervigilant parts of Steve's brain that are still primed for combat. But it's all over, so Steve ignores them. Rumlow, SHIELD, Hydra—they can do what they like with him. “Take him around back first,” Rumlow's saying. “I've got a score I want to settle.”

The guy salutes, and Steve's heart sinks with recognition even before he follows it with “Hail Hydra.”

“Hail Hydra,” Rumlow breathes, right in Steve's ear, and it's got to be meant just for him. Steve doesn't react. Maybe he would've reacted, half an hour ago, to the news that those guys in the elevator weren't just following orders and that half his strike team—men he's trusted with his life dozens of times—really have been Hydra all along. But right now, in the grand scheme of things Hydra has taken from him and turned to poison, that doesn't even make it onto the list.

He's hustled over to a cluster of big black Jeeps that are blocking off the street under what's left of the I-695 overpass. A couple of windowless police vans are pulled up behind them, and the narrow space between, right up against one of the bridge supports and in its shadow, is effectively out of the helicopter's sight. It's not exactly a back alley in Brooklyn, but Steve knows the drill. You seek out whatever privacy you can get when you're about to start hitting someone who's not in much of a position to hit back.

Instinct doesn’t lie, at least not this time. Rumlow greets him with a punch to the face. “Thought this wasn't personal,” Steve says, his cheekbone stinging.

“That wasn't,” says Rumlow, grinning like a shark and rocking on the balls of his feet. “This is.” He lands a few more punches, which hurt but don't do much damage, and then tries to slam Steve up against the side of a police van. He grunts in frustration when Steve doesn't budge: he's willing to stand there taking it, especially with half a dozen assault rifles still aimed at him at point-blank range, but giving ground isn't his style.

Rumlow shrugs, steps aside, and unholsters his stun baton. By the time Steve realizes it's aimed at his groin, he doesn't have much room left to dodge it, and it slams down hard on his thigh with a crackle of electricity. It hurts. It hurts a whole hell of a lot more through jeans than it did through the padding of his strike suit, and he has to clamp his legs tight together around it to keep Rumlow from being able to slide it upwards, which just makes it worse. By the time Rumlow disengages, laughing, he's bent double and his vision is black around the edges. This time he doesn't keep his footing when Rumlow shoves him from behind, and a kick to the seat of his pants sends him sprawling forward over the hood of one of the Jeeps, with a _clang_ as the cuffs encasing his arms collide with the metal.

“Protecting America's crown jewels, Cap?” Rumlow jeers. “You're gonna have to fight harder than that.”

“I'm not fighting you,” Steve says, still grimacing from the pain. “I think you'd have noticed if I was.” He makes to stand up again, more out of habit than anything else—all he wants to do right now is lie down in a ditch and think about Bucky, but some things are ingrained so deep they carry on with or without conscious will, and getting back up no matter how many times he's been knocked down is one of them.

There's an electronic _bleep_ from behind him, followed by another clang as the cuffs magnetize and attach to the car hood, and now he's not going anywhere. “So whatcha gonna to do, golden boy?” says Rumlow, pressing up behind him, lean but solid, two hundred pounds of pure muscle at Steve's back. “Lie down and take it?” He gives him a shove into the car hood with his hips, crowding up into his space, jabbing the stun baton against the base of his spine like a warning.

And Steve is sick of this. SHIELD and all its vast powers are compromised, Peggy's legacy has been eaten from the inside by Hydra, Nick Fury is dead, the Insight helicarriers are about to go up, and his best friend has been brought back from the dead and hollowed out into a mindless killing machine and set against him, and he may not be in a position to do a whole lot about any of that at the moment, but like hell does he have any patience to spare for Rumlow's petty little power trip. “Pretty much,” he sighs. “Go ahead. I could do this all day.”

Rumlow pauses a moment, like he's been taken aback, then bursts into ugly laughter. “Seriously? If I'd known you were this easy, Cap, I would've just asked ages ago.” Now he's grinding up against Steve from behind, and Steve puzzles over that sentence for several seconds before it hits him in a sickening flash that what Rumlow's got jammed up against the base of his spine isn't a gun or a stun baton.

He spends a few seconds wanting to throw up. He clenches up reflexively as his mind runs through the implications, a lot more vividly than he would ever want it to. And then, incredibly, what he feels welling up underneath the initial horror is _exasperation_. He's still out of patience for Rumlow's petty little power trip, even more so if Rumlow wants to take it this far. He's been tortured before, back in the war—used himself as bait for a Hydra raiding party, spent a few hours at their mercy before the Howling Commandos showed up and Bucky found him with half his fingers broken and crude phrases in German carved into his flesh. He can probably take this. It's not going to be fun, but he can't see much of a way out, and it's not like it'll even be the worst thing that's happened to him today. The thought of Rumlow fucking him makes his stomach twist, but not as much as the fresh memory of Bucky Barnes trying to drive a knife into his body.

He takes a deep breath, sets his jaw, and tries to make peace with what's probably about to happen. “You know,” he says, “I meant hitting me. But if you want that on your conscience too, I'm not exactly in a position to stop you.”

“God, shut the fuck up already.” Rumlow grabs him by the hair and smashes his head down on the car hood, then takes advantage of Steve's grimace to shove the tip of the stun baton past his parted lips. “You don't want to know how long I've wanted to do that,” he says, breathing heavily, forcing the taser deeper into Steve's mouth with one hand while the other creeps up under his shirt to grope and pinch in ways that make Steve's skin crawl. “You and your goddamn Boy Scout act, and I had to sit there pretending to eat up every word.”

Steve's barely listening, because the groping was bad enough, but now Rumlow's hand is moving lower, down to the fly of his pants. He looks up, holding out one last hope that even if they're Hydra too, maybe one of the guys in riot gear who are still guarding them at gunpoint will decide this is more messed-up than what they signed up for. They're laughing. One of them has his phone out, and Steve catches the words “gonna crash our whole intranet when I put it up, Captain America taking Hydra dick...” He screws his eyes shut and tries not to hear any more.

After that, he does his best to check out. Focuses on his breathing, the thud of his heartbeat, his hands pinned under him, the stretch of his lips around the taser. He can't entirely banish the awareness of Rumlow's hands on him and the shock of air hitting his bare backside, but with grim determination he keeps his mind on the taste of cool metal on his tongue. He wonders about Bucky's metal arm. Did he lose the real arm in the fall? On a mission? Or did whoever found him saw it off and replace it for some sick reason of their own? Who _did_ find him? He's in Hydra's hands now, probably. Or being lent out to them. Like some sort of weapon, like a _thing_ , right down to that red star on his arm like a maker's mark. The Soviets? What would they have been doing there? Or maybe it all comes back to Zola and his experiments. Bucky'd been different, afterwards. Stronger, healed faster, but guarded. Sullen. Withdrawn. Like a man grappling with bad memories, or a man fighting off something that was changing his mind along with his body? It was probably how he'd survived the fall. But—

The taser is yanked out of his mouth. Steve blinks back to reality and sees a hand in front of his face. “Spit,” Rumlow says.

Steve stares in mute incomprehension, and Rumlow backhands him across the face. “Spit, or this will hurt even more.”

“Like I care how much it hurts.”

Rumlow slams his head into the car hood again and says, “Look, kid, for all I know the 95-year-old virgin rumors are true and you don't know how this works. But I'm still not fucking you dry, so _spit_.”

And Steve starts laughing, because he gets it now. Rumlow doesn't want to chafe his dick. Steve doesn't care how much it hurts, but Rumlow sure does, and he wants Steve to make it easier for him. “Go to hell,” he chokes, through laughter that's only got a little bit of a hysterical edge to it.

He's fully expecting to get hit again, but Rumlow just leans in real close, his entire body pressing against Steve's, and snarls in his ear, “If you don't want to cooperate, I could always grab one of your friends out of the van and have them take your place. You wouldn't have to do anything, just watch them take what's meant for you.”

Steve stops laughing. Anger stabs red-hot through his veins, real anger, not just disgust and resignation. Of all the stupid, pointless, insignificant things to threaten his friends over—but this isn't really about whether he's going to spit, it's about whether he's going to jump when Rumlow says jump, and apparently Rumlow's touchy enough on that score to play his trump card. It's a low, crude, cowardly trump card, but it's effective. Just thinking of Sam or Nat in this position is enough to make him wonder if he could rip the hood right off this Jeep by the magnetized handcuffs and clock Rumlow upside the head with it. “Leave them out of this,” he growls, a warning and not a plea.

“Hey, maybe you _should_ leave it to Romanoff, I bet she's professionally qualified for it. Ten-to-one odds it wouldn't be the first time she's sucked cock for the greater good.”

Steve spits. He imagines he's spitting right in Rumlow's face.

After that, Rumlow doesn't waste much time about getting down to business. Steve can't see what he's doing, just feels it when he starts to force his way in. It hurts. Christ, it hurts. It's not the worst pain Steve's ever been in, not by a long shot, but it's a foul, nauseous pain that makes the bile rise up in his throat. He focuses on keeping his breathing steady and not giving Rumlow the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of him.

Rumlow's panting and chuckling a little under his breath. “So are the rumors true? Steve Rogers, the 95-year-old virgin?”

“Until about thirty seconds ago, yeah, they were,” says Steve with all the bitter sarcasm he can muster. He'd been trying not to think about that.

Rumlow pats his cheek condescendingly. “Aw, Steve. I'm honored.”

Steve grits his teeth to keep from rising to the bait, and then to keep from making any noise as Rumlow abandons his slow push and starts to thrust. He can't help thinking of Peggy, and how he still owes her that dance. Of Bucky, and how he owes him so much more than that. Of long winter nights camped out in the field, sleeping back to back for fear that one of them might try something stupid. If only he'd—nah, no use getting maudlin over what-ifs. But he can't help but wonder what it would've been like to have that. Whether he'll ever be able to have it after this. There's nothing pleasurable about this, not even sick unwilling pleasure, just the humiliation of being split open and rubbed raw from the inside.

Bucky. God. What right does Steve have to feel sorry for himself, after all the violations Bucky must've gone through to make him the Winter Soldier?

It's not so bad after that thought, or at least Steve can tell himself that without wanting to laugh in his own face. He discovers that it doesn't hurt as much if he goes limp and lets Rumlow have his way, so in a final gesture of defiance he stays tense and unwilling, making Rumlow curse and fight to keep going when Steve almost pushes him out at every thrust. If he can't stop this, he can damn well make it unpleasant for both of them. And it feels good to resist, even when the world's falling down around his ears and he's mostly beyond caring what happens to him. It lets him latch onto the pain instead of dreading it. Bucky'd be proud of him.

No, Bucky would laugh at him for getting his dumb ass pounded in the first place— _and I never thought I'd be saying it literally, even for a little punk who gets into as much trouble as you do_ —and sling Steve's arm over his shoulder and help him limp home, and then probably hold out a lot longer against tactics a lot more brutal than this when his captors were trying to brainwash him. They'd taken his _arm_ for Christ's sake. They'd taken his memories. To all outward appearances they'd taken most of his humanity. If he could see himself now... yeah, Steve's not going to complain if he has trouble sitting down for a few hours before the super-healing kicks in. He clenches down hard and gets a surge of vicious satisfaction when he manages to drive Rumlow's dick out of his body entirely, even though Rumlow just lines himself back up and slams into him even more violently than before.

Blinding pain, and a sudden rush of warmth and wet easing the passage. Blood, probably. Must've torn something. Rumlow lets out a low, obscene groan and speeds up. “Shame to see you end up like this, Cap,” he says, punctuated by harsh breaths. “You were always so much better than the rest of us, you know? Watching you in action—hand to heart, it was a _pleasure_. And then I had to sit there, and let you tell me not to 'go too far,' when you'd just knocked out a dozen guys without breaking a sweat. The hell's the point of all that strength if you're gonna be a sanctimonious little pussy about using it? Too good for the rest of us, huh?”

“Better than you's a pretty low bar,” Steve gasps.

“Yeah, you always thought so, didn't you.” There's an ugly snarl in Rumlow's voice, and he's pounding into Steve like he's trying to rip him in two. “Were you too much of a choirboy to realize I was making passes at you? Or just looking down your nose at me the whole time?”

“Wasn't interested,” says Steve through gritted teeth, remembering bitterly that he'd respected Rumlow back then, even trusted him. Even flirted back a little. “Not from you. Not from anyone.”

“Except Barnes.”

Steve's insides turn to ice.

“You know how many people could fight the Winter Soldier to a draw? Zero. Guy's got a hundred percent kill record. It's incredible. And then one look at your boyfriend's face and all the fight goes out of you, and you go with us meek as a lamb.”

Steve barely hears him. “You _knew_ ,” he rasps. There's a roaring in his ears. “All this time, you knew it was him. You knew he was alive.”

“You're giving me too much credit, Rogers. They only took him out of cryo a week ago, tops. But I got to help recondition him. Teach him to obey.” Rumlow's hand snakes around to fondle him—an invasion that doesn't produce any effect, because Steve wasn't getting off on this to begin with and now all the blood is pounding in his head so hard his vision is going red around the edges. “Hey, you want to know about his blowjob technique? Bet you'd be real interested in tha—”

Steve strikes without thinking. He hip-checks Rumlow with all his strength, grunting when the movement drives Rumlow's cock as deep inside him as it will go, and takes advantage of Rumlow's backward stumble to aim a kick that catches him square in the solar plexus. The Hydra guys make the mistake of rushing towards him and he kicks one gun out of its owner's hands, catches the amateur cameraman's smartphone in the follow-through and knocks it to the pavement with a crash of shattered glass, kicks a third guy in the face, and now they're hesitating, intimidated. He plants his feet and _heaves_. The magnetic clamps don't give, but the hinges of the car hood are making a promising groaning sound and he can already feel the metal starting to give way, is already calculating how he can use the bulletproof hood as a shield and maybe take out a few of the guards before he uses it to smash Rumlow's skull in— 

_Pain_. The taser slams into his back with a jolt of electricity, then Rumlow uses it as a plain old baton to crack him over the head, then he holds it to the car hood and shoves Steve down so it shocks his whole upper body. While Steve's twitching and reeling from a shock that would've killed anyone else, Rumlow rams his dick back into him, thrusting once—twice—burying himself to the hilt each time—“You're gonna pay for this,” he pants raggedly, “ _he's_ gonna pay for this, I'll fuck him with your blood still all over me and it's too bad you'll be too dead to watch—” He lets out a final convulsive gasp and goes still.

Steve can only hope it's over.

Rumlow pulls out of him with a groan, but his hands linger on Steve's hips, thumbs circling almost possessively on his skin. “I'm putting a bullet in your skull tonight, Rogers,” he says with a skin-crawling note of tenderness in his voice. “Kind of pathetic under the circumstances, but believe me, it'll be an honor.”

“Wish I could say it was mutual,” Steve mutters, his head spinning. He doesn't know how much of Rumlow's bragging and threats about Bucky to believe, but there's no reason for that last threat not to be credible. If Rumlow gets the chance. Steve doesn't intend to give it to him; he and Nat and Sam will work something out, and they'll escape and take down those helicarriers as planned, and they'll rescue Bucky Barnes in the process. Yeah. That's what they'll do. If Steve can stop reeling long enough to stand up.

There's a click as the magnet releases—Steve's arms stay firmly locked in the cuffs—and Rumlow yanks him back up by his shirt. Steve discovers that standing up is easier than he thought when the alternative is stumbling back into Rumlow's arms. His pants are still down around his knees; he stands there, face blank, as Rumlow pulls them back up and conceals his dirty work while one of the guards holds a gun to Steve's head. “All right, move. Take him back to the others.”

Steve takes his first few steps gingerly, trying not to wince. He feels raw and loose inside, and disgustingly wet with some mixture of blood and semen, but walking doesn't seem to make the pain that much worse. Rumlow falls into step beside him. His face is so smug it's practically radiant, and he keeps glancing at Steve like some trophy he can't keep his eyes off of. When they arrive and a couple of the guards are about to bundle him in with Sam and Natasha, Rumlow tries to back him up against the side of the van. Steve doesn't budge, even with Rumlow's breath blasting up in his face. Giving ground still isn't his style.

“You going to tell your friends where you've been?” Rumlow asks, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Steve recognizes the flirty smirk Rumlow used to give him in combat, and if his hands weren't in cuffs he'd punch it right off his face.

“How could I?” he says in lieu of punching. “One of the nice things about this century is, people get offended if you tell jokes about rape.”

The furious taser blow to his gut feels like a Pyrrhic victory, but a victory nonetheless.

He slumps down in his seat, ignoring how much it hurts to sit down, and lets the guards in the van clamp a second set of cuffs around his ankles. Sam is staring holes in the floor. Natasha's bleeding heavily, eyes closed. Both of them look up at him when he comes in.

“Hey,” Natasha says hoarsely. “Been having fun out there?”

“Not my definition of fun.” Steve swallows a lump in his throat, looking at them, and decides that between the three of them they've got enough problems already. “Nothing serious. Rumlow had a score to settle, that's all.”


End file.
